


Lost Limbs and Found Hearts

by TealTumbleweed



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TealTumbleweed/pseuds/TealTumbleweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky wakes up with gaping holes in his memory, he's not sure of anything anymore. That is, until he meets Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for PTSD and mentions of suicidal behavior.
> 
> For Sarah <3

He’s not quite sure what the first thing is he notices. It might be the brightness of the lights that seeps through his closed eyelids, or the incessant beeps and whirring of machines that sound like they’re invading the entire room. In the end, it’s the feeling of something being very _wrong_ that jolts him out of his slumber. Unfortunately, it’s just a mental jump, because he doesn’t seem to be able to move around very much. A hint of panic surfaces when he realizes that he can’t open his eyes either. _Stay calm_ , he thinks to himself, and to his own surprise it does seem to help a bit. It doesn’t feel like he’s still dreaming, and his mind is too foggy to think properly, but that doesn’t mean he can’t figure out what’s going on. He hates being kept in the dark, pun intended. He takes a deep breath and mentally surveys his body, noticing that he isn’t in any pain, but then again—he doesn’t feel much of anything. _Hospital?_ The thought comes to him all of a sudden, and the shock of the realization gives him the strength to open his eyes. _Hello, ceiling_ , he thinks, and the absurdity of that indicates that they—whoever they may be—must have him on some sort of drugs. A droopy smile appears on his face and stays there for a few seconds until he notices that he’s not alone.

His first attempt at talking is somewhat pathetic, no sound leaving his mouth at all. He clears his throat, producing a very week cough, and tries again. “Hey,” he whispers to the person lying in the bed next to him. “Wake up. Hey!”

The man has a very stick-like appearance, lying flat on his back and apart from the rising and falling of his chest, he wouldn’t be all that sure the other guy is actually alive. He clears his throat again in the hope of getting the rest of his voice back before speaking once more. “Excuse me? Hello?” His voice is still raspy but slightly more audible, and surely his roommate must’ve heard that, at least.

 Apparently that was the end of his drug-induced good mood because he’s had enough now. “Hey!” he manages to say in a whispered yell before collapsing into a coughing fit. He’s frantically looking around for a glass of water and finds none, but then—

“Sir?”

The door to his room must have been opened sometime during his coughing fit, and a girl in colorful scrubs is in the process of rushing towards his bed. “You’re awake!” she exclaims excitedly, as if his waking up was the best thing to happen to her this week.

“What—” he starts, but before he can formulate his question his coughing again. He notices his coughs are getting progressively worse because his throat is definitely starting to hurt now. His medication must be wearing off.

“Hang on, I’ll get you some water,” the nurse says as she walks into what he suspects is a small en-suite bathroom. A few seconds later she approaches the bed with a jug of water and a plastic cup, a straw sticking out of it in a cheery fashion. “Here,” she says, positioning the cup so that he can take a few sips of the cool water.

“Thanks,” he says, immediately feeling some relief in his throat. “Where am I?”

All of a sudden, the cheery disposition of the nurse is gone. “I’m very sorry to say you’re in the hospital. Sort of. It seems you’ve been in an, uh, accident,” she says, and he can tell she really does feel sorry.

“It seems?” he asks, confused. “What do you mean, it seems?”

The nurse shrugs. “There weren’t actually any witnesses. You were found in the freezing Hudson River, stuck in between the roots of a tree. You were, eh, sufficiently wounded for us to assume you had been in a serious accident.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to register, but then he finally starts to panic for real. “Sufficiently wounded? What the hell does that mean?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

Now the nurse looks like she _really_ doesn’t want to be in the same room as him. “I wish there was a good way of saying this but you’ve lost most of your left arm. We were able to save the shoulder as the flesh was kept in a relatively good state since you were found in freezing conditions, but almost everything below that was already gone,” she explains, using a tone of voice that is better suited to the radio broadcasting of obituaries.

“My arm?” he repeats. “It’s… gone? What happened?”

“We were hoping you would be able to tell us that. Don’t worry, you’re probably feeling very woozy. You’ve been asleep for quite some time,” the nurse explains, obviously back on a topic she’s more comfortable with.

“Asleep? As in a coma?” he asks worriedly, suddenly imagining himself as an old man. Not that he can remember how old he’s supposed to be at the moment.

“Welcome to our little coma ward,” she says with a grimace. “But luckily for you, it’s turning out to be nothing quite that bad. We were certain you were going to wake up again; it was just a matter of timing. And although brain damage was a concern for a while, it seems like you are in luck. You arrived here—let me check,” she says as she heads for the end of his bed where a chart is hanging in place. “Eleven days ago. That was two days after you were brought in,” she nods to his left shoulder, which is covered in several thick bandages. “That was done at the regular hospital in Albany, and then they transferred you here.”

That last bit of information makes him frown. “Here? I thought you said I was at the hospital.”

“Sort of. This is a private recuperation center. ARC? I don’t know if you’ve heard of it,” she explains, looking a bit sheepish.

He frowns again. “No, I don’t think so?” He sounds uncertain, even to his own ears.

The nurse gives him a reassuring smile. “It stands for Adirondack Recuperation Center. We’re basically in the middle of nowhere, not many people know us. We get quite a few of partly sponsored cases, which seems to be the case with you. Anonymous, of course,” she adds before he can ask. “Oh! Sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Sharon, Sharon Carter.”

He smiles at her slightly flustered expression. “No worries,” he says. “I’m—“

Hesitation makes him stop, and Sharon takes that as an invitation to start talking again. “You didn’t have any identification on you so we’ve all been calling you River. It’d be nice to have your real name!” she gushes, and he can see that she can’t wait to tell her coworkers that he’s awake.

He stays silent for a moment, looking at her expectant face. “I’m,” he starts again before stopping and furrowing his brow. The cheerful expression Sharon wears slowly falls away and he watches as she tilts her head to the side, as if thoughtfully observing him. It’s silent for almost a minute, and then—

“Bucky.”

It sounds finite, but he’s not sure he’s right. Bucky doesn’t really sound like a name, especially not the name of a grown man. (He _is_ a grown man, right?)

“Is that a nickname?” Sharon asks politely, but Bucky hears the subtle shift in her voice.

“Yeah,” he answers slowly. “It must be. I—“ he stops to think, but the drowsiness is coming back and he feels himself slowly being pulled under.

  

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

 The next time Bucky wakes up he’s in a different room. Or that’s his first impression, at least. He’s closer to the window now but upon further inspection he notices that they must have changed their beds around, because it’s definitely still the same, sleeping figure in the bed next to him. And Coma Guy excluded, he is once again alone. He does feel a bit less drowsy now, and with a bit of concentration he can make his toes move. And his feet, with a bit more effort.

That’s when it hits him again.

His right hand he can make into a fist, but his left—

 _Don’t look down. Don’t look down_.

It’s no use. He’s already glanced at his right hand, which forms a stark contrast with the cheerful stripes of the duvet cover, and it’s very obvious that it isn’t mirrored by his left. All of a sudden, Bucky feels a great sense of loss. Rationally he knows that the loss of an arm isn’t the end of the world, but right now he can’t think of anything worse. That is, until he remembers.

Remembers that he can’t remember anything.

Now that he’s had a bit of time to think it over, _Bucky_ sounds right to him, but he can’t remember anything else. About anything.

At the moment, though, the only thing he _does_ know is that he really, really has to go to the bathroom.

A few seconds later, he also knows that there’s a very slim chance that he’s going to make it to the bathroom by himself. He looks around to see if there’s any sort of button he can press to alert a nurse; surely that’s a standard feature in any hospital-like room. Whilst turning his head he notices his neck muscles are sore and stiff, and when he finally spots something that looks like it might summon someone it takes him a while to get his arm to do what he wants it to. He does notice his hand is free from the heart monitor he’s pretty sure that was attached earlier, and in place of the IV needle there’s now a small bandage. _Good riddance_ , he thinks, because he reckons that reaching out to press that button would be a lot less pleasant with those two.

After carefully using the button—conveniently labeled ‘Press for assistance’—attached to the nightstand beside him, he turns to the other side to stare out of the window for a bit. It’s a small bay window, low enough to offer him a view of part of the building’s backyard but high enough to offer seating for one. The garden—for a lack of a better word, because it’s huge—seems to feature a large patio with tables and chairs, behind which a wide lawn slopes slightly down towards an idyllic lake flanked by trees. Two people sit with their backs to Bucky, deep in conversation, and it must be really cold out because he can see puffs of air coming from their mouths.

Just when he’s turning his gaze back to the room to see whether it comes equipped with anything that’ll provide entertainment, the door opens and an unfamiliar man walks in.

“It’s awake!” he greets Bucky with a wide smile. Bucky just blinks at him, not knowing how to reply. “I’m Clint Barton, your physical therapist and—apparently—personal servant.”

“I’m Bucky,” Bucky begins. “Your patient?” He smiles softly and forgets for a moment that the guy that just entered the room is here to help him pee, of all things.

“Let’s see if we can get you up,” Clint says, coming to stand right next to Bucky. “I’m guessing you’re in need of a bathroom break. We have to be careful because your body hasn’t supported itself for a while, but you should be back on your legs in no time. Not like poor Mr. Jefferson here,” he nods at the man in the next bed over. “Guy’s been like that for nearly a year now. Skiing accident. Alright, let’s get you moving.”

He pulls Bucky’s duvet back and carefully bends and stretches his right leg a few times, and then orders Bucky to try to move it himself. He feels a bit stiff, but there’s no pain and Bucky realizes he doesn’t feel quite as helpless as before. When he can move both of his legs in a somewhat pathetic facsimile of air bikes, Clint grabs a hold of Bucky’s upper body to help him in a sitting position. It causes his shoulder to pull at his bandages, and Bucky hisses out in pain.

“Careful!” Clint orders, and it isn’t until Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed that the pain starts to ebb away. “The wounds are mostly closed but the skin is still new and easy to tear. That means that the bandages need to stay on at all times and showers are out of the question for now,” he explains, and Bucky nods. That doesn’t sound _too_ bad. “Alright, let’s see if you can stand up. One, two—“

On three, Bucky puts his weight on his feet and Clint helps him up. He feels a bit unstable, but there’s no additional pain and he definitely doesn’t think it’ll take long until he’s up and running again. Clint guides him towards the bathroom, which has ample space and both a shower and a tub, and, to Bucky’s relief, waits outside while he’s doing his business. His drawstring pajama pants are easy enough to manage with one hand and it isn’t until he wants to wash his hands ( _hand_ , Bucky corrects himself) that he has to call Clint back inside—he can walk well enough when he’s leaning on something, but washing the hand you’re using for support is kind of impossible. It’s not until now that he realizes how much he won’t be able to do with just one arm and that thought nearly literally floors him. Clint, however, is quick on his feet and manages to catch Bucky without him hurting his shoulder again.

“Easy there, tiger,” Clint says, and he puts his hands on Bucky’s waist so he can use the sink. Above the water basin is a mirror, and Bucky does his very best not to glance up. He’s not sure what he’ll see in the reflection, though he’s certain that it won’t be something he’d like. The trembling of his hand indicates that he’s not quite ready for that yet.

Afterwards, when Clint has helped him back into bed—now with the headboard slightly raised so it’s nearing a sitting position—Bucky feels exhausted. Frustration pricks at his eyes and he’s glad Clint’s pretending to fiddle with the television so he can quickly wipe his face.

Pointedly looking at his watch, Clint turns back to him. “Just after 9am,” he explains. “Time for breakfast, I’d say. What would you like? I can have Sharon bring you pretty much anything,” he says with a grin. “Excellent service here.”

That reminds Bucky. “Question. Who, uh, who had me transferred here? Sharon mentioned a sponsor of some kind but it’s just—I’m not sure I actually have a lot of money. Or, uh, any,” he hesitantly says, not wanting to get kicked out.

“You haven’t been told?” Clint says with a grin. “You _really_ don’t have to worry about that. Let’s just say you have an anonymous benefactor. Which is rare, because most cases we get are only partly paid for, but you must be worth it.” He winks at Bucky, before asking about his breakfast preferences again.

“But who could possibly—“ Bucky starts, when he’s immediately interrupted by Clint.

“Anonymous,” he says in a singsong voice. “Now, pancakes? Waffles? Full English?”

 

 ⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

After a simple breakfast of dry toast and a cup of tea—he doesn’t think he can stomach anything else right now—Sharon comes back to ask him to fill in some forms. When the very first one, simply stating NAME in bold letters, makes his throat close up, she notices for the first time that something is very wrong.

He tells her he can’t remember anything, and it feels as if something’s lifted off his chest.

She takes her questionnaire back and begins to fill him in on any and all questions that he has. He’s glad of that, because not knowing where or when he is exactly makes him feel disoriented and vulnerable. She starts with the basics, and tells him that it’s Sunday December 7th, 2014, and it feels odd to think that it’s already this close to Christmas. He literally doesn’t know where the year has gone, and it throws Bucky off.

“We’re still in the state of New York,” she answers to his question of where they are. “We’re very close to Adirondack State Park, hence the name ARC. This is a closed-off facility, which means that screened visitors are allowed to see our clients on the weekends, and any and all visits off the grounds are supervised by one of our staff. Most people that benefit from our help are regular people learning to live with physical or psychological handicaps, and we also offer a safe space for those on the mend.”

His next question is about his own identity, and the answer he gets on that subject is nothing if not disappointing. Sharon doesn’t know much about the full extent of the investigation the police must’ve started up, and advises him to ask his doctor as soon as possible.

Bucky’s left with nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon except watching daytime television and dozing off. Clint had told him that because today’s a Sunday, he won’t be able to talk to his doctor until tomorrow. He’s not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand Bucky’s glad he doesn’t have to have a million-and-one serious conversations right now, but on the other hand (is that still an expression he’s allowed to use?) he’s feeling antsy not knowing what’s going on in his own life. According to Clint, memory loss is quite common in trauma patients, though he did hint that generally, amnesia is most definitely a lot less aggressive. Not remembering an accident is an entirely different thing altogether from not remembering, period. Bucky can’t help but consider that maybe he hasn’t been in an accident at all. What is someone deliberately messed with his mind, and left him for dead? He can’t entertain this train of thought for too long, though, for it quickly feels too much of a bad sci-fi movie. (Does he like sci-fi? How can he remember general things like the English language and the concepts it describes, but not know his own experiences with those concepts?)

It isn’t until lunchtime that Bucky’s dragged out of his musing. “Do you want to come down for a bit, eat with the other residents?” Sharon asks when she comes in to check up on him. “A change of scenery might do you good,” she adds, pointedly looking at the bare patch of wall Bucky had been staring at—he’d turned off the TV when he realized he had no clue what was going on in any of the programs and got frustrated with his inability to remember anything other than straight up facts.

“Not sure I’d be great company right now,” he says a bit sullenly. “Thanks, though. Maybe some other time.”

Sharon sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “And here I was hoping I’d finally get a sociable patient,” she says without menace, and the unexpected remark makes Bucky smile. “Alright then, you get back to gloomily staring out of the window. I knew it was a good call to have your beds changed around—Michael wouldn’t have been able to appreciate the view anyhow. Secluded lunch for one, coming right up!” She winks at Bucky, who has to admit that Sharon’s slightly unprofessional behavior is actually making him feel a bit better. He politely asks for a grilled cheese sandwich, suddenly craving melted cheese, and waits for Sharon to get back.


	2. Chapter 2

As expected, Monday is a blur of new faces and even more unanswerable questions. He’s woken up by the voices of two young people having a gossipy conversation next to Coma Guy. He’s missed too much to be able to guess who or what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that the two aren’t aware of the fact that he’s awake.

“Excuse me?” He tries to get their attention before it gets even more awkward, and it’s evident neither of them had expected him to speak up.

“Oh my gosh!” the woman says, while the guy just looks stricken. “You’re awake! We thought—“

“Surprise!” Sharon enters the room with a wide grin on her face. “Looks like the two of you need to find a new place for your little chats. Somewhere without patients _in need of rest_ ,” she says with a playful glare, but she doesn’t smile until the both of them have left the room.

“Sorry about that,” Sharon apologizes to Bucky. “They tend to forget that this is a place for rest and not a summer camp. They have been using this room for a while because Fitz shares his with someone they deem too nosy, and it’s too cold to go outside for private conversations. He’s not even supposed to have visitors on all days but they can become a bit of a nightmare when you’ve got the both of them against you. They’re very likeable though, so nobody here would consider telling them off anyway.”

Bucky nods at that, understanding, when a thought pops into his mind. “Could Coma Guy have overheard the two of them talking?” he asks.

“Mr. Jefferson? We don’t really know. Sometimes coma patients do have an understanding of their surroundings but most of the time anything they might’ve picked up while they were asleep doesn’t stick. Just like when you’re dreaming.” She gets a mischievous look in her eyes. “Not that I’d mind if he’d overheard some of their banter. I’d love to have something against them!” She’s laughing again, and Bucky absently thinks that it makes her look quite pretty.

“How many people are here anyway?” Bucky asks when he realizes that he doesn’t even know how big his current home is.

“Not that many, it’s a relatively small club. At the most we’ll have 24 in residence, which means that during the day we’ll have a staff of four nurses, and then one or two at night. Added to that is a small general staff of cooks and cleaners, and on weekdays we also have two small teams of physical- and psychotherapists. You’ve already met Clint—he’s generally not here on the weekends but he happened to have an extra appointment yesterday. Today I’ll introduce you to the guy you’ll have informal therapy sessions with to see if we can delve deeper into your subconscious. And he’s also here to help you adjust to your new situation.” Sharon’s explanation is somehow comforting to Bucky; he finds that he likes building new knowledge.

He asks about breakfast and Sharon salutes him, telling him she’ll be right back. When he’s finished eating Clint comes in to help him do some warming-up so Bucky can move around a bit more. He also shows him a few exercises that should be done daily to maximize agility and muscle stabilization because he’s been in bed for quite some time. On his way out, Clint helps Bucky into the bathroom, showing him where towels are, and he even finds him a pair of sweatpants to wear instead of the thin pajama pants he woke up in.

The bathroom is a very practical one; the tub is large enough that even he should be able to lie down comfortably and the shower is a huge walk-in monstrosity that comes with a folding seat and handy soap dispensers. For now, though, once Clint’s left the room Bucky seats himself on the edge of the tub to have a quick wash. The washcloth pulls on his facial hair but he doesn’t trust himself enough to shave one-handed without nicking the sensitive skin of his jaw so he leaves his face with a scratchy half-beard to be dealt with at a later date. He has to be mindful of his bandages as well so he leaves his hair as is, the slightly too-long strands hanging in his face. It’s still relatively clean but slightly longer than convenient and Bucky wishes he had a hair tie to pull it back, but then again—he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to do that with one hand either. He shrugs, trying his very best not to think on it too hard, and he puts on a clean t-shirt and his sweatpants before heading back into the shared room. He makes his way over to his half and walks past his bed, deciding to sit down in the bay window to look outside for a bit. He watches as someone feeds the ducks in the lake and he has to smile when he sees the animals race towards every crumb of bread.

It’s half an hour later when Bucky hears a soft knock on his door and before he can respond it opens to reveal a man he hasn’t met yet. He has a kind smile on his face and when he sees he has Bucky’s attention he enters the room with big steps, coming to a stop in front of him.

“Hey there!” he says, holding out his hand for Bucky to shake. “I’m Sam, Sam Wilson. You up for a little chat?”

Bucky acquiesces and introduces himself for politeness sake. His first impression of Sam is that he doesn’t look all that much like a psychotherapist—he seems very fit, though it’s hard to tell underneath the bulky ugly Christmas sweater he’s wearing. The hideous garment negates all sense of professionalism, but Bucky finds that he doesn’t mind at all. He doesn’t think he’d be able to talk to a strict old man clad in tweed right now. He’s still feeling very disoriented and the happy-go-lucky demeanor of Sam is already doing wonderful things for his mental state.

“Thanks, though I don’t know what you mean by _ugly_ Christmas sweater. This is one of my faves!”

Okay, so apparently Bucky now has a problem with voicing his thoughts out loud. “Christmas isn’t for another three weeks!” he says instead of apologizing.

Sam scoffs at that. “So? December is sweater month, everyone knows that. Besides, I can’t wear all eleven of them in just two days—that’d be insane!”

“And owning eleven ugly Christmas Sweaters isn’t?” Bucky fires back, amused.

“Alright, I see your point. But you can’t ignore the fact that it’s very festive apparel!” Sam says with a stupid grin on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, very gay,” Bucky allows, to which Sam pretends to be offended.

“I think you mean bi,” Sam says in a deadpan voice. For a moment Bucky’s afraid he’s taken it too far, but Sam’s sparkle in his eyes betrays him and they both burst out in laughing.

“Please tell me you chose a better way to come out to your family,” Bucky says, wiping his eyes with his hand.

  
Sam smirks at him. “Of course. What use is a pilot license if you can’t use it to do some creative skywriting?”

Bucky’s honestly not sure if the other is being serious or not, but he’s sincerely hoping it’s the former. However, that’s not the main thing he gets from that sentence— “You really know how to fly a plane?” he asks, which makes Sam double over in laughter.

“Sure do,” he says merrily. “Did some flying with the Air Force straight out of high school. Anyway, what do you say to getting out of this depressing room for a bit to have a chat?”

He leads Bucky into a sunny hallway that provides them with the view of the front of the building. It’s not as spectacular as the back but Bucky does observe the circular driveway with raised eyebrows. He can’t even see the main road from here and that’s impressive—they really must be in the middle of nowhere. It makes him feel safe, as if there’s someone out there who might harm him. The thing is, he doesn’t know, and that makes him more afraid than he’d like to admit.

On the way to what Bucky assumes is his office Sam keeps up a light stream of conversation and he feels himself responding easily. It’s kind of obvious that Sam knows what he’s doing; he never touches upon any topics that might cause Bucky to feel incapable and he appreciates this very much. Being talked to like a fragile three-year-old is definitely not on his list of personal interests, he knows that much.

When they take the elevator from the 3rd floor to the 1st, Bucky feels a moment of unease. As soon as the doors close he feels locked in, and he can’t explain why the small space is making him uncomfortable.

“You alright?” Sam asks, reminding Bucky of the fact that he’s a therapist.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, trying to focus on the here and now. He has a nagging sensation in the back of his mind as if he should be remembering something that’s just out of reach. It’s making him feel vulnerable.

“Don’t worry,” Sam tells him. “You’ll be using the stairs again in no time. For now I’d advice against using the elevator on your own, if it’s making you feel uncomfortable. There’s always someone around to accompany you if need be, you’ll see.”

Bucky nods, feeling slightly better, but can’t help but feel a sense of relief when the elevator doors open up to reveal a cozy lobby. He can see glass doors leading to what looks like a fancy canteen but the lobby itself is empty, for which he is grateful.

“The Nest—“ Bucky can hear the capital ‘n’ ”—is this way,” Sam says as he leads him down another corridor, this one a lot shorter than the one upstairs, flanked by walls covered in colorful artwork.

Sam’s office turns out to be less than an office and more of a small group of cozy rooms that make up half of the therapy wing. “Clint and I form a team on this side,” he explains as he shows Bucky around. “We’re usually working together in one form or another, with him giving clients physical support and me doing the psychological stuff. It’s a good combination because we generally see that everyone who comes in here can do with a mix of both.” He enters one of the rooms before Bucky can get a good look at any of the others, and he has to admit that his curiosity is piqued. “Come in, make yourself at home,” Sam tells him while waving at the three comfortable-looking chairs surrounding the coffee table underneath the window. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Just water’s fine, thanks,” Bucky answers while he sits down in the chair closest to the window. He’s not sure why but being able to see what’s going on outside helps calm him down.

Sam tells him he’ll be right back and leaves Bucky to have a look around the room. It isn’t all that big but generously furnished which makes it a very pleasant space to be in, and Bucky feels himself relax into the soft cushions of his armchair. The opposite side of the office is dominated by a large desk surrounded by tall bookcases displaying not only medical handbooks and self-help pamphlets but also the odd houseplant and what he identifies as souvenirs from trips abroad. It makes Bucky glad to think that Sam isn’t the sort of therapist who sits behind their imposing desk while anonymous patients stare up at them from the industrial chair in front of it.

“Here you go.” Sam’s voice brings Bucky out of his musings and he accepts the bottle of chilled water he’s handed. “Alright, let’s get to it. Before we start, I’d like to explain how we generally work here. While I’m officially a psychologist my duties are more like that of a mental health counselor, which means that you can come to me with any and all questions you have and together we’ll find a way of answering them. We also offer a broad range of different kinds of therapy but we’ll get to those later—let’s see if we can get each other to know a bit better first.

“First things first, do you have any expectations whatsoever regarding these sessions? I have to admit that this situation is somewhat unusual for me too, though I suppose general amnesia is unusual for almost everyone. So, apart from getting those cherished memories back, is there anything else you’d like to explore here?”

Taking a minute to think the question over, Bucky turns his attention back to the greens beyond the window. Unlike his own room Sam’s sanctuary offers him a view from the side of the building and he can now see that the trees that flank the driveway extend into a proper-looking forest. It also means that he now has a better idea of the size of the building and all its extravagancies make him feel like he’s in a place he most definitely doesn’t belong. This is a place for the wealthy, and memory or no—he’s positive that he’s never been _that_ rich.

Yes, he wants to regain access to his past. But, he figures, to get there he’ll need to know what happened to him first. “Was there an official investigation as to how I ended up in that river?” he asks Sam.

His new therapist nods but doesn’t look happy. “There wasn’t all that much to go on. No foreign DNA found on your body, no clue as to where you entered the river. The police will want to question you now that you’re awake but you and I both know that that’s not going to do much good. They tried to identify you but had no success—you’re not in any criminal databases, which is good, I suppose, and you don’t match any descriptions of missing people either. In the end they had to conclude that you must’ve been in an accident, despite the fact that your case is one of the most mysterious ones they’ve had in ages.

“The media rumored that you had been attacked by a crocodile, causing a bit of a panic since crocs aren’t exactly native to the state of New York. The police was quick to negate that though, as your wounds weren’t consistent with that of an animal attack. In fact, your wounds aren’t really consistent with any kind of attack, which is really odd—even an accident needs a _cause_. I believe their latest theory was, I’m sorry to say, that someone had been in the process of murder when they felt the need to get rid of your arm because it had some kind of identifying mark on it; a tattoo or a specific type or scar,” Sam explains, looking worried. There’s no good way to deliver such news, however, so Bucky just nods. He’d been thinking it might’ve been something like that; falling into a river just doesn’t rip someone’s arm clean off.

“How come I didn’t bleed to death?” he asks Sam, a though occurring to him. “Do they know when, uh, my arm—“ He trails off, not sure how to put this delicately.

“They’re not sure. The doctors over at the hospital did say that the wound wasn’t of a surgical nature but they couldn’t ascribe it to anything else either,” Sam says gravely. “However, one thing that did stump them was that the state of healing didn’t seem consistent.”

“Stump?” Bucky asks wryly, eyebrows raised. Sam looks confused for a second before bursting out in laughter.

“Alright, that was unfortunately phrased, I’ll give you that. Damn, and I was doing so well, too! Do you know how hard it is to avoid certain words to make you won’t trigger someone?” He rubs his hand over his face and Bucky finds he has to smile as well.

“You don’t seem very professional,” he mentions and he feels his face heat up when he realizes what he just blurted out. “Sorry, didn’t mean to—“

Sam, however, just laughs a bit more. “Yeah, don’t I know it,” he agrees. “Still a bit new here, I suppose; I only graduated two years ago. Plus I just prefer a more casual approach when it comes to psychotherapy, makes it way more accessible.”

Bucky can’t help but agree with that. “Anyway,” he says, trying to get back on topic. “You said something about my wounds not being consistent?”

Sam scratches his goatee. “Yeah, the superficial wounds surrounding your shoulder and the remains of your arm seemed more recent than the amputation itself. No-one could think of an explanation for that though, so they just discarded it. Maybe something to keep in mind.”

Bucky frowns, feeling confused. Nothing of what Sam’s telling him rings as the truth, even though he supposes that’s to be expected. “So do the police still want to take my statement? Oh, and who was the one who found me, by the way?”

“I’ll contact the department this afternoon, talk to the lead detective on your case. He’ll probably say something along the lines of ringing back when we can give him another update. The poor woman who found you was just a random passerby, out for a run with her dog. They did so a background check on her, of course, but it didn’t come up with anything. That leaves them with no suspects and no leads. As I’ve said already, the trouble with people washing up in rivers is that it’s always very hard to determine what the point of entry might’ve been. They backtracked a few hundred miles but they haven’t found anything conclusive.”

That sounds pretty much like what Bucky had already guessed. “Alright,” he says. “So where do we go from here?”

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

That night Bucky thinks a lot about everything he’d been discussing with Sam. For obvious reasons they hadn’t been able to touch upon anything in Bucky’s past so they mostly went over current events to see to what extent Bucky was all caught up. They came to the conclusion that he was in possession of quite a great deal of general knowledge from before 2011 and that, for some reason, his memory after this period is incredibly fuzzy.

“We’ll get there, in the end,” is what Sam had said.

Now Bucky is browsing through a magazine he had found lying around in the cheerfully decorated common room that Sam had showed him earlier. He hadn’t felt up to talking to any new people just yet so he’d swiped the first periodical that caught his eye before bringing it up with him to his own room. It’s not all that interesting; a fair deal is gossip about celebrities Bucky doesn’t recognize and most definitely doesn’t care about. For once, though, he’s quite sure that he’s not familiar with anyone in the gossip rag because he feels that he wouldn’t have given a fuck before his accident either, and not because he’s forgotten these meaningless people.

He pauses to read an article about army wives, his eyes coming to a stop at the picture accompanying the interview with a young mother-of-three left all by herself to take care of the kids. There’s something awfully familiar about the photograph; a blonde woman standing arm-in-arm with a beefy man sporting a crew cut and military fatigues. He can’t put his finger on why the image seems so recognizable to him but he figures that maybe he’d known someone in the army as well. Someone close to him, like his father or a brother. He stares at the picture for a few minutes, the feeling that he’s about to remember something getting stronger and stronger until it’s left him with just a pounding headache, an uncomfortable sensation spreading through his entire body. He tosses the magazine in the direction of the dresser opposite his bed and feels a vague sense of satisfaction when it hits the ground with a sharp thud instead.

Later, when he’s crawling underneath his soft duvet to go to sleep, he’s forgotten all about the article.

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

_The heat is everywhere. It seeps into his pores like molten lava and he can’t focus on anything else. Screams around him beg for his attention but he can’t make out what the voices are saying, what they need from him. He has to help but when he tries to move, an unimaginable pain shoots through his entire body, and now the screams are coming from him, are torn from his mouth by an invisible force. He’s—_

“—up, come on, you’re dreaming, it’s not real. _Wake up_ , dammit!”

He’s gasping for breath and focuses on the voice next to him telling him that he’s safe. _You’re not there anymore_ , it says. Wherever _there_ is.

A few deep breaths and his vision is coming back to him. A tired-looking redhead is gazing down at him with a worried expression on her face and she hands him a glass of water when she deems him calm enough.

“I’m not gonna ask but if you won’t tell Sam in the morning, I will,” she says defiantly, as if expecting him to disagree.

“What—“ It takes a moment for Bucky to process her words, but then he understands her meaning. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Sorry. Did I wake you?” he asks, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden.

“Couldn’t sleep,” the girl admits with a shrug. “I have the tendency of wandering the hallways at night and I could hear you thrashing about. I know all about nightmares so I figured I might as well come to your rescue.” She gives him a lazy salute.

Bucky doesn’t know what brings her to ARC, but he empathizes with her nonetheless. “I’m Bucky,” he introduces himself for lack of anything else to say.

“Natasha,” the girl replies. “Well, this was nice, but I’ve got to get going now,” she says wryly, obvious that she knows full well she has nowhere to go.

Not wanting to upset Natasha, Bucky goes along with her. “Good night,” he says with a stupid sort of wave.

Natasha’s already going out the door, but Bucky can swear he hears her say _yeah, right_ before she’s entirely gone.

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

When he wakes up again the next day Bucky can’t remember much of what happened last night. He lies in his bed for a few minutes trying to replay the dream in his head but he’s interrupted by Sharon entering the room and he loses all trail of thought. She brings him breakfast and then closes the curtain between his bed and Coma Guy’s so she can give the other man a sponge bath. He does his very best to not let that ruin his appetite and resolutely stares outside instead.

It’s an exceptionally sunny morning and apparently warmer than it’s been all week because he can see a blond guy setting up easels on the lawn. He’s wearing paint-splattered jeans and a soft-looking sweater and Bucky wonders who he is. He sees Sam approach him and he can pinpoint the moment the stranger notices him because his entire face lights up with a huge smile. The two men hug and Bucky has to look away for a second because the scene seems too intimate for him to witness it.

He quickly finishes his eggs-on-toast and waits for Sharon to pull back the curtain, indicating that she’s done with Coma Guy. When she asks if there’s anything she can help him with he hesitates and she waits patiently for him to speak.

“Is there someone who could help me shave?” he asks. “And wash my hair?”

Sharon smiles at him. “I could help you, if you want. That’s sort of my job.”

He pauses again, afraid he might offend her. “I know, it’s just—no offence, but I don’t think I’d feel comfortable with having you see me naked.” He knows he’s mumbling but he can’t bring himself to repeat his request. He’s not even sure why it’s making him feel embarrassed, for that matter.

“Oh hon, it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Sharon smirks and it’s the wrong thing to say because Bucky can feel himself starting to panic. He doesn’t know if he’s a vain person but right now he can’t stand the idea of someone else having seen him—having seen his disfigured appearance—without his say-so.

“Shit, sorry,” Sharon apologizes when she notices Bucky’s distress. “Do you want me to get Clint? It’s not officially in his job description but I know he won’t mind.”

“Yes please,” Bucky manages to utter and Sharon hastily leaves the room. As soon as she’s gone he can breathe again and he patiently waits for Clint to show up. He doesn’t even have to wait all that long and when Clint enters the room, he doesn’t even mention Bucky’s weird request. He helps him through his exercises and then leads him into the bathroom, dragging a chair along on the way.

  
Clint positions the chair with its back to the sink and the movement drags Bucky’s gaze towards the mirror above it. He gasps, shocked when he can see his own face staring back at him. He looks tired, dark circles underneath his eyes emphasizing his wrung out appearance.

However, that’s not what brings tears to his eyes.

The left sleeve of his soft blue t-shirt is glaringly empty and the sudden pain is so fierce that it feels like someone’s tearing off his arm all over again.

“Fuck,” he hears Clint mutter and that brings him out of his trance. He notices he’s hyperventilating while sobs wrack through his body, tears streaming down his face and leaving shiny rivulets in their place. He loses his balance and Clint hurriedly guides him into the chair, providing him with a view of the bathroom door instead. Clint crouches in front of him and he puts his hands on Bucky’s knees, grounding him.

For a minute or two, all Bucky does his focus on his breathing. When he deems himself calm enough he nods his thanks at Clint, who backs up, giving him space. Bucky gets back on his feet and takes a deep breath, _one two three four five_ , and resolutely turns around.

The image in the mirror is still the same but this time Bucky’s prepared for what he sees. He lets out a steady stream of air and nods, acknowledging himself. With one smooth motion—yes he might have practiced that, shut up—he takes off his t-shirt, and stares.

The bandages covering his left shoulder do a great job of covering what must be heavily scarred skin underneath, making the situation seem less serious. It’s almost unreal to see the strips of gauze taper off some three inches below his armpit and when he tries to move what’s left of his arm a somewhat hysterical laugh forces its way out of his throat. For a few minutes he observes his own body, turning this way and that, and when he’s satisfied that at least most of it looks familiar, he turns back to Clint.

His physical therapist motions for him to resume his seat and then carefully washes Bucky’s hair above the sink. The angle is a bit odd and not all that comfortable but he doesn’t mind when he cards his fingers through his clean hair, feeling a lot better already. Clint helps him shaving as well, and he gives him some tips on how to get the best result with one hand. He does advise Bucky to try an electrical razor to avoid cuts, and Bucky makes a mental note to ask Sam about their policy on going into town to get supplies.

When they’re done in the bathroom Bucky has to suppress his urge to hug Clint in gratitude. “Thanks,” he says instead, but Clint simply nods.

“Anytime,” he replies, and he leaves Bucky so he can wash the rest of his body as well.

When he’s clean from head to toe, Bucky dresses himself in the clean clothes Sharon had provided him with and moves back into his bedroom. He still has half an hour before his appointment with Sam so he seats himself in the bay window, hoping to watch the blond guy at work outside.

Three more people have joined him by now and he can see the guy moving from easel to easel, giving the others what looks like tips and encouragement. Bucky can see that the guy is working on a piece of art himself as well and he’s impressed by the progress he’s making—he obviously knows what he’s doing. There’s something about the sweeping motions of the blond’s brushwork that soothes him and Bucky decides that he could watch him forever without getting bored for one moment. He wishes he could go downstairs to have a closer look but he doesn’t feel up to talking to strangers just yet. For now, he’s satisfied with appreciating him from a distance.

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

When he talks to Sam later that day he can’t help but feel a lot more optimistic than before. Sam compliments him on his progress with the mirror which leads them to talking about the life Bucky may have as an amputee in more detail. According to Sam not a whole lot has to change, and Bucky jokes that it’s not really change when he doesn’t remember how it used to be.

All in all, he thinks he’s doing quite well. Sam asks him if he has any idea what sort of occupation he might have had and it’s not until now that he’s reminded of yesterday’s nightmare. He can’t remember any specifics but when he explains the feeling it left him with when he woke up he’s starting to feel uncomfortable again.

“It’s possible that the sensations are just a reflection of your inner turmoil,” Sam points out. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much for now; if it’s really important it’ll come back to you. You just have to give it some time.”

Bucky nods but can’t help the feeling he’s missing something again. Doing his best to distract him from the topic Sam asks him if he can ask a somewhat delicate question.

“Sure,” Bucky replies, feeling sufficiently at ease around Sam to not mind personal queries.

“It’s something I’ve been wondering about since you woke up. I have a great personal interest in all things related to gender and sexuality and to what extent these are ingrained in our psyche,” Sam explains with a wave of his hands. Bucky nods, motioning for him to continue. “You woke up with fairly severe retrograde amnesia and I’m curious if that has affected your sexuality at all. Is there something inside you that tells you you’re straight, gay, bi, or something else entirely?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer but finds that Sam’s question is leaving him feeling confused. “I’m—I’m not sure,” he says. “I haven’t even thought about it, to be honest. I don’t really feel much of anything?”

Sam considers him for a moment, his fingers touching each other underneath his chin. “Hmm,” he comments, and Bucky can see that his curiosity has been piqued. “If you that does change, could you tell me? If you feel comfortable doing so, of course.”

Not feeling like it’s something he should hide about himself, Bucky agrees. For a moment his thoughts go to his blond artist but he discards them again immediately. That wasn’t sexual attraction, he thinks to himself. Just a casual interest. Nothing more.


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly but surely, Bucky starts to get used to life at ARC. Daily physical therapy with Clint means that he’s pretty much independent by now and although his bandages still make it hard to shower by himself he’s definitely improving in every other sense. He’s still not the most social person but halfway through his first week up and about he starts making short visits to the communal area on the ground floor of the building. Unfortunately he doesn’t see Natasha again—and he can’t really glean any information about her either—but he does make friends with a boisterous ex-military man who introduces himself as Dugan (“I’d call you by your last name if I knew what it was!”) and perpetually wears a bowler hat on top of what seems to be ARC’s standard uniform of sweatpants and a t-shirt. When Dugan asks Bucky to join him for a game of chess he can’t find a reason to decline and he discovers that he really likes playing the game with Dugan. He’s a bit odd, Bucky thinks, but then again—everyone here must be odd to a certain degree. He finds he doesn’t mind one bit.

The only thing that doesn’t see as much progress as he’d like are his therapy sessions with Sam. A week after they first started seeing each other nothing has really changed in Bucky’s ability to retrieve memories and he’s starting to become somewhat frustrated. He’s managed to keep his feelings in check so far but when he has to gaze upon Sam’s disappointed face after another pointless (he knows they’re not, not _really_ ) morning of beating around the bush he’s had enough. He gets up from his armchair with a strangled sound and leaves the room, quickly making his way through the dining room and onto the patio outside. He ignores the murmured greetings from a few of the other residents and heads towards the lake, glad that it’s cold enough to keep others from straying this far into the backyard

In the past week he hasn’t been outside much, the cold air feeling wrong to him somehow, but the fresh air is what he needs right now. He makes it to the lake’s shore at a brisk pace and he almost throws himself down on the ground, his knees not a foot from the water’s edge. The grass cushioning him is separated from the muddy depths by a small ledge surrounded by small rocks. He grabs a handful pebbles and arranges them in random formations on the patch of grass in front of them. It’s difficult to get them to stack up properly with just one hand but he manages well enough to keep his mind occupied for the moment. He doesn’t even notice that Sam’s followed him until the other man clears his throat.

“What.” Bucky sounds tired to his own ears and he’s not really interested in anything Sam’s got to say right now. He knows he’s being impolite but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I know this must be really hard for you, but a process like this takes time,” Sam tells him patiently. “It’s alright to have expectations, but make sure to readjust these when they become unrealistic. Don’t give up, Bucky. I know you have it in you.” Bucky knows he’s right, of course. It’s just—

“I might have an idea for something that might help you,” Sam continues. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up or not because you still had a lot of progress to make in adjusting to your current situation but I think you’re ready for the next step. A buddy of mine is currently working on his graduation project here and I think you might benefit from his area of expertise.”

Bucky frowns as his rocks come tumbling down from their precarious balance upon each other and starts building again. “What’s he do?” he asks cautiously.

“He, uh, does art therapy,” Sam explains hesitantly.

Bucky pauses, blinking down at his rocks. “Would that be the good-looking blond one?” he asks, suddenly more interested in what Sam has to say.

“Good-looking, huh?” Sam repeats with a smirk. Bucky blushes and ignores Sam’s ribbing. “Yeah, that’d be him, his name is Steve. We met in college, have been helping each other with projects ever since. Art therapy isn’t quite as vague as it sounds and it’s proven successful in many cases. Do you think that’d be something you’d like to try? If all else fails you’ll have a new hobby and some nice social contact.” He delivers a wink with his last sentence, making Bucky roll his eyes.

It’s not that it sounds bad to him, not at all. The thing is, Bucky’s feeling vulnerable right now and he knows that it’s making him prone to lashing out. “I’ll think about it,” he tells Sam. And he will. It’s just that he doesn’t think he can stomach any more disappointments; doesn’t want to get his hopes up just to see them crash again.

Besides, if it means meeting Steve, it might be worth it nonetheless.

Sam nods, satisfied for now, and leaves Bucky to it. He throws his rocks back into the river, suddenly feeling restless, and decides to go for a run. He hasn’t had any proper exercise since waking up because Clint keeps telling him to build it up gradually but he figures it can’t hurt too much. There’s a trail that leads around the lake and because it seems completely deserted today Bucky decides to give it a go. The worst thing that could happen is—not that Bucky cares. It’s not like anyone would miss him if he doesn’t make it back.

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

“I’ll do it,” are his first words to Sam the next day. Bucky had been restless all night despite the mostly successful run around the lake and he’d been thinking about what Sam had said the entire time.

His words seem to make Sam’s day. “Awesome!” he says with a huge smile on his face. “Steve has a group session this afternoon; he’d love to have you if you feel up to it. Unless you’d rather have a private session?”

Bucky pretends to think it over for a second but his mind is already made up. “Group session sounds good to me,” he says, not being able to bear the thought of having one-on-one therapy sessions with Steve right now—he’s sure he’d put his foot in his mouth one way or another.

“I’ll let him know straight away!” Sam says, maybe slightly too excited. “It’s at 2pm in the art studio. D’you want me to join you or are you going to be okay?”

It’s embarrassing but Bucky does prefer to have Sam around, at least to do the introductions, and he mentions that to him. Sam doesn’t seem to mind though, so Bucky lets it go. He’ll deal with the extra anxiety that afternoon; for now he needs to focus on his chess match with Dugan in the sitting room.

Dugan is happy to see him as always. “Bucky Bear!” he shouts as he sees him, a chess board already set up on the table in front of him. “Are you ready to have your ass handed over to you?” he asks with a grin.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky huffs as he takes his place opposite Dugan. Ever since their first game they’ve been playing each other at least twice daily. Bucky wouldn’t call himself very good but the choice of board games is limited and the rules are easy enough. While both of them seem to have good tactical skills neither are really interested in developing a real strategy so it’s mostly the two of them playfully bath-mouthing each other, which Bucky very much enjoys. “It’s all about the spur of the moment,” Bucky had said about chess and Dugan—a war veteran—heartily agreed.

They’re half a dozen moves into their new game when Bucky tells Dugan about his upcoming art therapy session with Steve.

“I know Steve Rogers alright, he’s a good man. Very enthusiastic and a great listener but he’d never make you feel like you’re talking to a shrink,” Dugan tells him. “I’m no good at art myself but he makes it seem like the simplest finger painting is a work of genius. He actually managed to diagnose the subtleties of my PTSD from a drawing of birds in a field, if you’ll believe me.” Bucky can’t help but feel impressed, especially when Dugan tells him how art therapy can also help you face your fears and deal with bottled up emotions.

The two of them keep talking over lunch and Bucky’s surprised to see how much their talk of art therapy has made Dugan open up to him. He’s not sure if the two of them would’ve been friends if they hadn’t met in this particular situation but he really is a good guy. It also helps that Bucky’s anxiety caused by his upcoming therapy is significantly dissipating and when he leaves for the art studio he’s almost feeling like himself again.

The first time Bucky sees Steve Rogers up close he’s starting to doubt his decision to go on with this. Because for the first time he feels something that isn’t fear, or anger, disappointment or frustration. Looking at Steve makes him feel like he’s able to breathe for the first time since he woke up and that’s a feeling so welcome that it frightens him.

It’s Sam who notices him first and he breaks off the conversation he was having with Steve to beckon him over. “Bucky, I’d like you to meet my friend Steve,” he introduces the two and it takes a second for Bucky to remember to shake Steve’s outstretched hand.

“Great to have you join us,” Steve gushes, completely unaware of the inner turmoil Bucky’s currently experiencing. His voice is even deeper than he’d imagined and the adorably excited look on his face at the prospect of having a new student is almost too much for Bucky.

“Uh, thanks for having me?” Bucky says, sounding uncertain. Steve doesn’t seem to notice his hesitancy, however, and he ushers him onto the room as Sam says goodbye. The art studio is aptly named; it’s a large open space with desks positioned in a wide circle around a cloth-covered stool. There’s a long metal sink below the wide window opposite the door and the other walls are covered by open storage units carrying pretty much every kind of art supply he can imagine (and then some, because Bucky’s pretty sure he doesn’t even recognize some of the stuff). An open door leads to what looks like a storage closet and he can see that this is where the easels are kept he saw Steve use the other day, as well as a wide variety of crafting and woodworking materials.

When he’s taken in the perimeters of the room he directs his attention to the people already there. He doesn’t recognize either of the two men but the third person he does look familiar.

“So you’re not a figment of my dream-induced imagination,” he says as he takes the seat next to Natasha. She smirks at him but before she can give a reply, Steve’s talking again.

“Great, you already know someone! Excellent,” he claps his hands like a school teacher might do and Bucky can’t find it in himself to get annoyed at that—Steve’s passion is rather endearing. “Let’s wait for five more minutes before we begin, I’m expecting one or two more people.” He starts distributing large sheets of quality paper and the two men Bucky doesn’t know get up to start collecting art supplies from the shelves on the walls. Unsure what to do Bucky observes them to see what they get but there doesn’t seem to be some sort of set curriculum because they both go for different mediums, as far as he can tell.

A soft scraping sound makes him turn his attention back to Natasha, who has started sharpening an already deadly-looking pencil with a knife.

“Why am I not surprised?” Bucky asks with a smile, which makes Natasha gracefully flip the knife into the air only to catch it again and continue whittling.

“Probably because it matches my sharp personality,” she says with a wink.

Steve arrives back at Bucky’s table after having helped the others with setting up their workspaces and it’s obvious to Bucky that they’ve been here many times before. “Are you actually going to do any drawing today, Nat?” Steve asks Natasha, pointedly looking at the sharpened pencil in her hand.

“Maybe,” she smirks as she produces more sharpened pencils out of the pocket of the hoodie she’s wearing. Bucky notices that she must have been carving them herself because the backs have all been shaped into figurines. _Cute but deadly_ , Bucky thinks, and it seems like it’d be quite a good description of Natasha herself.

In the meantime two women have entered the room and they too get to work by themselves, which means that all of Steve’s attention is currently focused on Bucky. He point-blank refuses to let it make him more nervous but as soon as he looks into Steve’s eyes—his blue, blue eyes—he knows it’s a lost cause.

“Alright then,” Steve says, dragging an unoccupied stool over so he’s sitting directly opposite Bucky. “Do you have any experience with art?”

Bucky raises his eyebrow as if to say, _really?_ and Steve immediately brushes a bright red before giving him a heart-felt apology.

“I’m just so used to that being my first question, I didn’t even think,” he explains, stuttering a little. Bucky thinks it’s adorable.

“No worries,” he says with a small smile, hoping to put Steve out of his misery. “But no, I don’t think I’d be very good at art. It seems overly complicated,” he adds to give Steve a starting point.

Steve laughs. “Luckily for us, you don’t have to be good at art to like it, or even to have it be beneficial in this case. How about we start with some simple shapes and colors? It can be very meditative,” he suggests to Bucky.

It sounds a bit eccentric to him but he agrees nonetheless. Worst case scenario would be getting paint on his clothes and he thinks he can live with that. It’s not like they’re really his, anyway. Steve beckons him over to the one of the supply shelf units and helps him pick up a few of the things he’ll need. As far as Bucky can tell they’re not going for anything too complicated; Steve picks a tin of ready-to-use watercolors, some brushes, and a glass jar which he orders Bucky to fill at the sink. He’s glad Steve’s helping him out without specifically saying so because it would be a pain in the ass to have to walk back and forth to get everything. Not like he can carry all that much now that he’s got only the one arm.

When he gets back to his table Steve’s already setting out all of his stuff. He’s positioning everything on the right-hand side of the desk and for a second Bucky’s not quite sure if he should be annoyed or grateful. He wishes, not for the first time, that missing an arm wasn’t such an obvious thing.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it,” Steve says when Bucky has resumed his place at his desk.

He looks up at him, feeling a little panicked. “What?” he asks stupidly. “I have no clue what to do! You’re the expert, you’ve gotta help me out, man.”

Steve laughs softly. “Sorry, just teasing,” he says, and Bucky hates how it’s making him blush just a bit. “Though it’s fine to tell me to piss off at any given moment. You’re here for you, not for me. Is there anything you feel like painting?”

Bucky has to think for a moment but as his recent experiences are somewhat limited he tells Steve that he’d quite like to attempt painting the lake. Out of all the things in his immediate surroundings he likes that the most and it’d be nice to have it on paper.

“Now,” Steve starts his explanation. “Normally, an artist would perhaps go to the location of what they’d like to paint or maybe use a photograph as reference. What I would like you to do is try to picture the image you want to paint in your mind and then use that as a reference. So, try to envision the lake and see if you can manage to copy it onto the paper. It doesn’t have to bear its likeness, just try to get the feeling right. Do you think that might work for you?” He smiles encouragingly at Bucky.

“I think so,” Bucky answers, and he thinks he wouldn’t have been able to disagree even if he wanted to. “It would help me to start, at least. Uh, do I make a sketch first?” he asks, gesturing towards the piece of paper in front of him.

“It all depends on you. What I like to do is take a light color and a lot of water and make a rough sketch with that, just to get an idea of what has to go where. But in the end the fun’s all in the experimenting!” Steve says, making a grand gesture with his hands. Bucky thinks he’s really cute when he’s talking about art; it’s obvious that it’s one of his greatest loves.

The idea of disappointing Steve is so appalling that it makes Bucky pick up one of the brushes—a small round one—and dip it in the water to get it wet. He follows Steve’s advice and picks a pale yellow to start with. It takes a bit of trial and error to get the right amount of paint stick to the brush but ones he’s outlined the entire lake he thinks that he might be able to get the hang of this. The first few strokes are too dark because the paper moved along with the brush—no second arm to keep it still—but Steve assures him he’ll be able to fix that easily later on. Bucky finds that it’s easier to keep the paper from moving when he puts his jar of water on top of it and he starts to add more and more yellow to form the small hills in the background. He’s so focused on what he’s doing that he almost forgets that Steve is observing him and Bucky isn’t pulled out of his reverie when the other man coughs a little.

He takes a look at the unfinished painting in front of him, a nagging sensation in the back of his mind. “It’s like a big sandbox,” he says with a huff.

_It’s always the sand—it gets everywhere, is inescapable. The heat of the sun is reflected and it’s all he can think of, the glare of the light blinding him, and then he’s—_

“Buck. Bucky!” Steve’s worried voice takes him out of his trance and he wipes the sweat of his brow. “What happened?”

Bucky shakes his head, trying to get rid of the lingering images in his mind. “I’m not sure,” he says, dazed. “It felt like a dream, only not. Is that supposed to happen?”

“It’s possible, sure, but I didn’t expect it so soon. Maybe we should call it quits for today, you look exhausted. Are you feeling okay?” Steve sounds so concerned that it’s almost making him feel guilty.

He’s about to reply an affirmative but then Bucky stops to think the question over. “I’m not sure,” he admits to Steve.

“How about I put this away to dry and you can come back tomorrow to continue working on it,” Steve suggests, already starting to gather up Bucky’s paints. He acquiesces, standing up to rinse out his brush and water cup. When he’s done he finds Steve standing next to him, a worried look on his face. “Do you want to stay and talk for a bit?”

“Don’t you have to help out them as well?” Bucky asks with a nod to the other people in the room.

“They’re all working on personal projects at the moment,” Steve says, and he leads Bucky over to a somewhat paint-splattered but comfortable-looking couch on the other side of the room. They sit, and Bucky takes his time to take a good look at Steve.

“What?” he asks self-consciously as he wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Is this a personal interest in me, or purely a professional one?” Bucky asks, teasing the other man a bit.

It works because he’s immediately blushing. “Professional!” he shrieks, becoming even redder. “I’m not just an artist, I’m an art _therapist_. That—“

“In training,” Bucky adds with a grin.

Steve sighs. “In training, yes. But it means that I’m not only here during the creative process but afterwards as well. It’s very important to supply the client with proper support or they might end up feeling even more vulnerable after our sessions. So, yeah. How are you feeling?”

Bucky shrugs and scratches at the stubble on his chin. It’s starting to become more than just a five ‘o clock shadow and Bucky’s not sure he likes it. He hasn’t tried shaving again after Clint helped him, too afraid to do it wrong, and he still hasn’t managed to make it to the nearest town to buy an electric razor. He doesn’t like relying on others too much. He turns his attention back to Steve, who’s watching him patiently. “I think I’m okay, really. It was just unexpected. And not very informative.” He huffs and shakes his head. “How does this thing usually work?”

Steve bites his lip, looking uncertain. “I’m not very experienced with amnesia, I’m sorry to say. Art therapy can be a great tool to strengthen memories but regaining them is still very much undocumented. To be honest, you’ve already made way more progress just now than either Sam or I expected you would make in a week. But it does mean that I’m not too sure on how to proceed and I really hope you don’t mind too much.” Bucky doesn’t like the way Steve seems to question himself right now, and he finds that he wants to reassure the other man.

“That’s alright,” he says casually. “I’m just feeling a bit wobbly now, nothing too bad.”

“Would it help just to chat for a bit?” Steve asks, still looking too worried for Bucky’s liking.

“Sure. How did you end up in this madhouse?” Bucky asks, glad to have a distraction.

Steve frowns. “It’s not a—“

“You know what I mean!” Bucky laughs.

Rolling his eyes, Steve starts talking again. “I’ve known Sam since sophomore year of college. He was one of my TA’s and we got along really well. He, uh, helped me out when I was going through some personal drama and we’ve been best friends ever since.” Bucky feels kind of jealous of Sam, the way Steve talks about him.

“Just friends?” Bucky asks, wiggling his eyebrows to make the question seem less serious.

“Yes! Just friends,” Steve says quickly.

“Sore subject?” Bucky asks jokingly, but he can read in Steve’s reaction that it’s closer to the truth than he’d like to admit. “Sorry,” he quickly says, not wanting to hurt Steve’s feelings. “Changing the subject completely, how did the both of you end up here?”

Steve looks relieved to be back on topic. “Sam managed to pull some strings to do his graduation project here; he’s sort-of dating Director Coulson’s daughter. When I told him about my own idea for a graduation project he suggested working together on it. He needed a new facet to the psychotherapy they’re offering here, I needed an internship. It worked out quite well, especially considering the fact I even get paid. I’ve been here for almost four months now; I’ll be done on New Year’s Eve. It can be difficult work but it’s very rewarding and I definitely want to continue in the same vain once I graduate,” Steve says and Bucky can see that he’s in his element here.

“So you’re studying art therapy specifically, then?” Bucky asks. “What made you decide to do so?”

Blushing again, Steve shrugs. “I’ve always loved art and I really like helping people. This seemed like the most logical choice and I’ve never once regretted it. I probably could’ve done art full time and I’d have liked it, but this is better. Besides, I can still draw and paint quite a lot in my free time so I’ve got the best of both worlds, really.”

Bucky nods, understanding completely. Helping others is one of the best and most altruistic goals one can have and he likes to think that that was what he was doing as well, before.

The two of them spend the better part of an hour talking to each other in their own little corner of the room, almost forgetting about the other people present. It isn’t until Natasha walks up to Steve that he remembers that he’s supposed to be working here.

“Shit!” Steve curses, and with an apologetic glance to Bucky he rushes off towards the worktables where one of the painters has requested his help.

“So,” Natasha begins, looking like the cat that got the canary. “You and Rogers, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” is all Bucky has to say on the subject, though he has to smile a little. He does admit to himself that he seems to have some sort of connection with Steve that he hasn’t had with anyone else so far but he doesn’t know what that means just yet. He’ll find out soon enough, he thinks. If it’s up to him he’ll be seeing a lot more of Steve in the coming days.

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

He’s having breakfast with Dugan the next morning when Sam approaches their table, a huge smile lighting up his face.

“I hear you’ve been making some progress with Steve?” he asks immediately after greeting the both of them

“Not sure it can be called that just yet,” Bucky says carefully. “But it’s looking like it might, soon.”

Sam claps his hands and for a moment he looks like a happy seal. “That’s fantastic!” he says. “And I’m glad to hear you and Steve are getting along so well.”

Bucky raises his brows. “That what he said?” he asks with a twinkle in his eyes, causing Sam to laugh out loud.

“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?” he says, still smiling. “Nah, Steve’s a good guy, he gets along with pretty much anyone.”

“True, that,” Dugan supplies.

“I’ve noticed,” Bucky allows. “Still, he got all weird when I asked if the two of you were more than friends. Something happened there?” He knows it’s none of his business but he can’t keep himself from asking it any longer.

In response, Sam bites his lip and looks thoughtful. “Not really my place to tell, but he did try to ask me out once, back when we first met. I said I couldn’t, me being his TA and all, so we became friends instead. It didn’t really occur to either of us to try again when I graduated but I’m quite sure when I say that we both think of the other as our best friend and nothing more.”

“So he _is_ gay?” Bucky asks before he can run the query through his mental filter. He flushes, fully aware that he’s giving himself away.

“Jeez, Bucky, careful there. I know I’m oversharing and I feel guilty about that but your interest is showing,” he says with a shake of his head. “Oh, there’s Natasha! Be seeing you guys later.” He hastily walks out of the room and Bucky watches him accompany Natasha towards the lake.

His interest? Is he interested in Steve? Bucky takes a moment to ponder that over. True, he does like Steve more than anyone he’s met so far around here, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. Right? Besides, what he felt yesterday was more of a friendly connection rather than anything sexual. He looks up to see Dugan look at him expectantly and he realizes that he’s missed something. “Sorry?” he asks, and Dugan shakes his head at him.

“Nevermind,” he says. “See you at lunch!”

Bucky follows him to put away his breakfast tray and then makes it outside as well. Sam and Natasha appear to have an intimate conversation on a bench near the lake and Bucky doesn’t want to bother them so he walks in the other direction instead, following the path to the other side of the lake. When he reaches the opposite bank he takes a moment to gaze back at the large building dominating the lawn. It really is beautiful, he has to admit. If Bucky has to guess he’d say it’s about 200 years old but definitely in good condition, exuding wealth and comfort. It’s a nice day out but too cold in the shade—it’s supposed to snow soon—and he’s about to turn back when his thoughts are interrupted.

“Oh, hey, Bucky!” he hears behind them, and looks up to see Steve running towards him. He wants to reply when a second glance turns his greeting into a strangled sound.

It should be illegal to go outside dressed like that.

It’s obvious that Steve’s out for a run and the sunlight beaming down on him must’ve been too much for him to bear as he’s taken off his hoodie, which he’s now using to wipe off his face. He’s still wearing a light gray tank top but it’s clinging to his chest and leaves nothing to the imagination. His shoulders gleam at Bucky and it’s impossible not to notice the Greek god-like muscle structure Steve has going on. His body’s—

“Everything alright?” Steve asks, causing Bucky to blush furiously.

“Yeah, fine,” he answers hoarsely, trying to look anywhere except at Steve. It’s a futile attempt though, because Steve’s chest seems to have some sort of magnetic attraction.

Of course Steve notices Bucky’s distraction and has the absurd grace to fucking _apologize_ to him, as if Steve’s at fault here and not Bucky, who’s currently staring at him slack-jawed.

“No, I’m sorry!” Bucky says hastily. “It’s just that—this appears to be the first time I’ve seen anyone less than fully clothed. Nothing to do with you. Nothing at all. Just that. Yeah. Sorry.” He’s started mumbling and is absolutely mortified as he rubs his hand over his face.

Steve just starts to laugh and Bucky looks up at him, confused. It only results in making Steve laugh even more. “You’re adorable,” he says, and Bucky stupidly blinks up at him. “Come on,” Steve says as he changes the subject. “Wanna go for a run with me?”

Bucky heaves a deep sigh, thankful for the diversion. “I would,” he says. “Except I still haven’t figured out how to shower properly so I don’t want to get all sweaty.” Steve frowns at him but before he can ask, Bucky elaborates. “The dressing on my shoulder can’t get wet. It’s coming off tomorrow though, that should be a huge relief. Though God knows washing my hair one-handedly is still going to be a pain.”

“Can’t you get help for that?” Steve asks him.

He nods. “Sure. If you like having a near-stranger joining you in your shower twice a week. Shower time is me time—not like that, you know what I mean—and having someone see me in the buff is enough to ruin that completely. No thanks! It’s scarring enough to think that Sharon had to give me sponge baths when I was still asleep. I swear I can see that woman leering at me sometimes,” he says, and he’s only half joking. “I just have to figure out how to shave with one hand and I’m all set.”

Steve’s looking at him and Bucky can see that he’s mentally rehearsing something so he patiently waits for him to get it out. “I, uh,” he starts hesitantly. “I can help you with that, if you want. I know I’m as good as a stranger too but at least I won’t ogle you like I know Sharon will.”

Bucky has to laugh at that. “You know her that well, huh?” he asks.

His remark causes Steve to hide his face in his hands. “She tried asking me out a few times, when we first met. She likes looking you up and down like you’re a piece of meat. She’s a nice girl but, uh, that’s it.”

“You get easily embarrassed, Stevie?” Bucky asks slyly, resulting in Steve hitting him in the arm to get him to shut up.

“Jerk,” he says without menace. “But I am serious about the offer, in case you get desperate. I do know how to shave.”

“I’ll think about it, punk,” Bucky allows. If he has to be honest, he’d say that it’ll probably be the only thing he’ll be thinking about in the near future. Nonetheless, the thought of having Steve that close to him makes him a bit uncomfortable and he can’t put his finger on why. He does know, though, that it’s an incredibly different sensation than the one he had when Sharon made the same offer.

Steve nods and he starts going through his warm-up procedure, ready to continue his run. Bucky does his best not to follow the smooth movements of his limbs but the smirk of Steve’s face tells him that he’s failing desperately. It’s okay, though. It’s obvious that the both of them feel at ease around the other despite not having known them for very long and Bucky finds that he quite likes that.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week goes relatively smoothly. Bucky’s mornings start with Clint hanging around his room for a few minutes; he doesn’t need all that much physical therapy anymore but Clint’s a good guy to joke around with. After breakfast, Bucky talks to Sam for an hour and a half and after lunch he’s usually found in Steve’s art studio. While he does produce a few painting (yes they’re supposed to be abstract shut up) he doesn’t make any more progress in unveiling his memories, which is why he starts his Friday a bit depressed.

“I was so optimistic after that first day,” he confides in Steve that afternoon. “The only thing it did was make my nightmares worse. I keep waking up with a feeling that everyone I’ve ever known is dead and it’s horrible.” He sounds devastatingly sad even to his own ears and he can see that it’s affecting Steve as well.

“Maybe we should change things up a bit,” Steve says thoughtfully. “I mean, maybe it worked so well on Tuesday because you didn’t know what to expect. We could try a change of medium? Let me think…”

Bucky looks at the almost completed painting he has in front of him and he has to admit that it doesn’t look all that exciting to him. “What do you have in mind?” he asks somewhat suspiciously,

“Meet me back tonight,” Steve decides with a nod. “We’re going to need a bit more space. And privacy.”

“Privacy?” Bucky asks, the doubt in his voice masked by anxiety. “What for?”

“Nothing bad, I promise. You’ll see,” Steve says mysteriously, but his ridiculous wink sort of ruins it.

Bucky laughs and turns back to his painting, determined to see another one finished. He amicably chats with Natasha during the process, who now has a collection of over a dozen sharpened pencils with carvings ranging from cutesy squirrels to deadly sharks. Bucky appreciates her style of creativity and he knows Steve does, too.

Nat joins Bucky and Dugan for dinner, which surprises Bucky as he’s never seen her around in the canteen before. He still can’t make out most of Natasha’s personality but he’s found that he really enjoys being around her; she might seem cold and aloof to the untrained eye but Bucky knows better.

Around 8pm that night he makes his way back to the art studio. When he arrives the bright overhead lights have been turned off, making way for the softer light of a few strategically placed strings of fairy lights. Steve is in the process of lugging something out of the storage room and into the center of the studio and at first Bucky’s not sure what to make of the contraption. It doesn’t hit him until Steve looks up at him, finally noticing he’s got company.

“A pottery wheel?” Bucky asks, his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. “How very romantic. And cliché.”

Steve scoffs at him. “Shut up, it’s a very useful tool,” he chastises Bucky, though he’s blushing again as well. “Pottery is a very organic way of expressing your creativity. I would’ve tried it this afternoon if it hadn’t been for the fact that you need two hands to use a pottery wheel and I, uh, figured that might be too intimate in a class session. Feel free to decline, it’s just—I think it might be really beneficial.” Steve’s voice dropped down during his explanation but the last sentence has more power to it, as if he’s in need of some convincing himself as well.

“You look a bit nervous,” is what Bucky makes of that, which makes Steve fidget with the lump of clay he retrieves from one of the wall shelves.

“I’m not very good with intimate situations,” he admits, his ears a bright red.

Bucky’s trying to ignore his own nerves but he’s not doing a very good job. “I’m not nearly drunk enough for this,” he mutters, and Steve perks up a bit.

“Not yet a professional,” he says with a grin as he holds up a bottle of cheap (Bucky assumes) whiskey.

Bucky has to think for a moment but then decides, _fuck it_. He approaches Steve, motioning for him to open the bottle before grabbing it out of his grasp to take a generous sip. It’s the first time he’s had any sort of alcohol since waking up and he can feel the pleasant burn all the way to his stomach. “Alright, then.” he says as Steve follows his example, sounding braver than he feels. “Let’s do this.”

Steve positions two stools directly opposite each other around the pottery wheel and they both sit down. There’s already a tray laid out with tools and a bowl of water and Bucky expectantly looks at Steve, not sure how to proceed.

“I think it’ll be easiest if we both put our right hand on the lump of clay and start slowly,” Steve explains as they both dip their hand into the water. Bucky does as Steve directs and feels intimately connected to him as soon as they’re both touching the clay. “Don’t have too clear an image of what you want to make in your mind, just try to feel and let that feeling guide you. Does that make sense?”

Bucky nods and tries to ignore the knowledge that his hand is almost touching Steve’s; he doesn’t want to mess this up. Steve turns on the wheel and it slowly begins to turn. It’s immediately obvious to Bucky that it’s going to be really difficult to form the clay with hands that aren’t in sync and he looks on as the lump between them becomes even more uneven than it already was.

“You’ve never tried this before, have you?” Bucky asks, amused.

“No, not like this,” Steve has to admit. “It’d go easier if I’d be sitting behind you but, yeah. I don’t think I’m ready to channel my inner Patrick Swayze just yet,” he says, looking very self-conscious.

Bucky doesn’t get the reference but Steve’s insecure expression stops him from asking for clarification and he focuses his attention back on the clay in front of him. Very carefully they start at the bottom and slowly move their hands up, trying to get the right shape back into the soggy material. For a moment it all seems to work out, until—

“Fuck!” Bucky almost shrieks as the clay begins to wobble again, its movements getting worse with every turn of the wheel. He panics and quickly pulls his hand back, causing Steve to push too hard and he ends up accidentally shooting a piece of clay at Bucky’s face. He tries to avoid it and it collides with his good shoulder instead, paralyzing him for a moment. When he looks back at Steve the other man looks like he’s wishing for the floor to swallow him.

“I’m so sorry!” he says frantically, standing up to push a wet rag to Bucky’s shirt. Bucky just has to laugh and tells him not to worry about it.

It feels weird, having Steve’s hand touching him. With the bandages gone his skin is still very sensitive but it doesn’t hurt when the water soaks into his flesh. He looks up from the stain in his t-shirt and finds the blond looking back at him with a curious expression on his face.

“Uh.” Steve makes a small sound and blinks furiously but doesn’t try to avoid Bucky’s gaze. His inattention does make him drop his rag, however, and Bucky jumps up from his seat when the soaking wet cloth falls into his lap. “Shit, I’m so sorry!” Steve repeats as he flaps his arms around, obviously not knowing how to react. His eyes fall on a clean, dry rag and he grabs it before advancing on Bucky, who walks backwards into some of the supply shelves.

“Oof!” His back hits the metal uncomfortably and he holds his breath as the paint tubes behind him start to wobble precariously. Steve steps into his space, simultaneously reaching out for both him and the paint tubes, and Bucky yelps. “Steve!” he exclaims, almost scandalized when Steve’s body presses into his own. “I think I can manage, thanks very much.”

Steve’s blushing so much that he seems to emanate heat as he silently hands Bucky the dry rag. “I’m such a klutz,” he says, and he looks so miserable that Bucky almost feels sorry for him.

“This has gotta be the most unconventional way of hitting on someone,” Bucky says with a grin. “Very dirty, though,” he adds, trying to get Steve to laugh again.

“Jerk!” Steve says when he realizes Bucky’s taking the piss. “You had me really worried!” In retaliation, he brings up his clay-stained hand and presses it to Bucky’s face, leaving a perfect print on his cheek.

Bucky gasps, faking outrage. “Oh no, you didn’t!” he exclaims, and he mirrors Steve’s action by rubbing his own hand through Steve’s hair. Steve yelps and tries to evade Bucky’s attack but Bucky pulls him back and they bump into each other again. For a moment they’re playfully shoving at each other, the space between them getting smaller and smaller, until Steve stumbles into the shelf beside Bucky and loses his balance. He tumbles down to the floor and instead of grabbing the shelf for support he only manages to pull a bunch of bottles of paint with him. A few of them open up in the crash and some of the paint splatters onto Steve.

All of a sudden, Bucky can’t breathe.

The entire room disappears and all he can see is Steve lying in front of him, red and orange coloring his face, his chest, his arms.

Time stops.

“No!” he yells, sinking to the floor as well. He can feel himself starting to hyperventilate as he drags Steve’s upper body onto his lap and tears are spilling from his eyes as he checks Steve over.

“Don’t—no, Steve!”

There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him that Steve’s alright but the evidence in front of him is too overwhelming.

Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck and tears soon soak into his t-shirt, mixing with the liquids already there. “I can’t lose you too,” he wails, great sobs wracking through his body.

It takes him a while to realize that the voice he ascribed to his subconscious is actually his friend trying to speak and he has trouble focusing on what it’s saying.

“—paint, it’s just paint, Buck,” it’s telling him desperately. “It’s not real, I’m fine. Just paint,” it repeats over and over until the realization finally hits him.

_Oh_.

Bucky feels himself slowly resurfacing, and the first thing he notices is that Steve hugs him back tightly, his right hand drawing soothing circles onto his back.

“Steve?” he asks in a small voice, disoriented.

“Right here, Buck. I’m fine, you’re safe, and we’re in my art studio. You’re really worrying me. Are you back?” Steve’s voice is absolutely heartbreaking and it kills Bucky to know that he’s the cause.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky tells him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey! None of that, buddy,” Steve’s saying but Bucky’s already scrambling away from him.

“Fuck!” he shouts as he tries to tear out his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Steve tries to approach him but Bucky ducks in on himself, sure that he’s never felt this embarrassed in his whole life. He had this one good thing and now he’s fucked that up and—

The soaking wet rag is back and it’s currently working its way onto Bucky’s face.

“The fuck?” he says as he looks up.

“It’s. Okay,” Steve spells out for him, looking very strict all of a sudden. “No harm done. We seem to be, however, completely covered in clay and paint. Let’s go get cleaned up, yeah?”

Bucky stares at him for a moment. “You mean you don’t hate me?” he asks softly, feeling a weird mix of amazement and terror.

Steve gapes at him. “I could never hate you, Buck. Especially not for something like _this_ , that’d be ridiculous. Come on, let’s go find a shower before all this clay begins to dry.”

They help each other up, having already decided that cleaning the studio can wait until tomorrow. Bucky leads Steve upstairs and into his room where he grabs two clean t-shirts from his dresser before showing Steve into his bathroom. They shuffle around awkwardly for half a minute, neither of them sure how to proceed. Bucky doesn’t want to ask Steve for help, but still—he’d really like to get clean before everything’s dried to the point of no return. Steve, however, is a saint.

“You want me to help washing your hair?” he asks, knowing that Bucky finds it difficult to do with one arm.

“That’d—that’d be nice,” Bucky admits softly. The sexual tension between them had dissipated during the paint incident and he’s secretly glad for that. He doesn’t think he’d want that kind of relationship with Steve, however much he likes him. He’s not quite ready for that.

Steve ushers him into the large walk-in shower, the both of them pointedly avoiding each other’s gaze. “We should probably take off our t-shirts,” Steve says after a moment, though he doesn’t move to take off his own.

Bucky gulps and he can’t help but look in the direction of his left shoulder. He doesn’t think Steve would be the sort of person to judge others based on appearance, but still… As hinted at when they met during Steve’s run Bucky’s quite sure that underneath his t-shirt Steve has the body of a Greek god and he can’t help but feel intimidated.

That is, until Steve mentally seems to encourage himself before taking it off.

He can hear himself gasp when he lays eyes on Steve’s bare chest. Bucky’s right about his divine muscle structure but doesn’t expect to see the long scar leading from his left collar bone right down to the bottom of his sternum.

“Heart surgery when I was a kid,” Steve explains, looking very self-conscious. “I used to have all sorts of medical issues.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” Bucky utters, his eyes roaming over Steve’s chest.

“Huh? Why?” Steve seems genuinely confused by Bucky’s statement.

Scoffing, Bucky waves his hand in front of Steve. “Because, well, all of that. You’re the best-looking person I’ve ever seen. And by that I mean healthy, obviously,” he quickly adds.

Steve laughs, but it’s clear to Bucky that he doesn’t really believe him. “Ever taken a look in the mirror?” he retaliates.

For a moment, Bucky falls silent. He still has a problem with mirrors, though he has to admit that exposure does help a bit. “You must be really blind if you didn’t notice I’m missing an entire _limb_ ,” Bucky says and it comes out harsher than he means it.

“You’re gorgeous, Buck. Arm or no arm.” Steve sounds so sincere that his words almost manage to make Bucky cry.

Nevertheless, Bucky’s still not really believing him and to prove his point he takes off his t-shirt in one fluid motion ( _thank you Clint_ , he thinks) and drops it next to Steve’s. For a moment he thinks that he’s won the argument because Steve’s eyes bulge as soon as they land on Bucky’s torso.

“Shit,” he whispers softly. But he’s not just looking at Bucky’s mess of a shoulder—he’s looking everywhere, eyes roaming down his body until they come to a standstill at the patch of hair leading into his sweatpants. Bucky coughs softly, bringing Steve’s blush back in full force. “Sorry, sorry,” he hastily mumbles, suddenly looking anywhere but at Bucky, who’s amazed at his reaction.

“You really don’t mind?” he asks, awe in his voice. He’s looking at Steve, sure he’s never seen anyone like him in his entire life.

The blond directs his gaze back at Bucky’s face, his eyes kind and a small smile on his face. “Of course not,” he says. “You’re amazing. Why would anyone be bothered by something as trivial as that?”

It makes Bucky laugh. “Trivial?” he asks, brow raised slightly sarcastically.

“Okay, maybe not _that_ trivial,” Steve admits jokingly, and suddenly all tension between them is gone. “We should probably get rid of our pants, too,” he says, getting back on topic. “We might still be able to salvage them.”

Bucky agrees to that, smiling at Steve’s accidental innuendo. He does have his limits, though. “Boxers definitely stay on at all times,” he adds to Steve’s suggestion. Steve nods and kicks off his shoes before taking off his jeans, and Bucky does the same though at a slightly slower pace—having a nearly-naked Steve next to him is messing with his head. Just a bit.

The therapist-in-training pulls out the folding shower seat and motions for Bucky to sit down in front of him. He grabs the showerhead and aims it at the floor before turning on the water, waiting for it to warm up before directing the spray onto Bucky’s shoulders. The heat feels good on his neck, especially in the places where drying clay is making his skin itchy.

“Tilt your head back and close your eyes,” Steve tells him and Bucky does as he asks. Holding the showerhead in his left hand, Steve uses his right to carefully comb through the strands of his hair. It’s still slightly longer than Bucky would like it to be but he has to admit that having Steve tug on his locks to get the clay loose feels amazing. It gets even better when he puts the showerhead back into place to pour some shampoo onto his palm and he starts to massage Bucky’s scalp with both hands. Steve moves slowly, carefully, and for the first time Bucky doesn’t feel helpless but cared for. The emotion hits him suddenly, and he lets out a soft sob.

“Am I hurting you?” Steve asks, immediately worried. He stills his hands in Bucky’s hair, causing him to push his head further back into Steve’s grasp.

“Feels good,” he murmurs quietly.

Steve nods and continues his scalp massage. When he deems Bucky’s head clean enough he slowly moves down to his neck and shoulders, and Bucky can’t help but moan softly at the amazing sensation.

He’s pretty sure he’s never felt this way before in his entire life; surely this moment is one of those that even the worst type of amnesia can’t take away from someone. Bucky still has his eyes closed and he’s suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings but especially of Steve, feels his heat seep into his skin. His steady presence helps ground Bucky and he can’t help but think that his is what it’s like to feel _safe_.

“You alright?” Steve asks in a husky voice and Bucky’s glad to know that this isn’t just affecting him. He makes a soft sound to let Steve know not to stop, who takes that as an encouragement to apply more pressure to his shoulder muscles. The feeling is extraordinary and Bucky moves even more into Steve’s touch, dropping his head forwards to give him better access. Steve takes this as a cue to grow even bolder in his touches and he sweeps his hands over Bucky’s back and down his sides, causing him to take a shaky breath. For a few more moments—Bucky doesn’t know if it’s seconds, minutes, or hours—Steve moves his hands over him until they come to a standstill on his shoulders.

“I think you’re clean now,” he whispers, and the sound of his voice makes Bucky come back to the present. He turns around to look up at Steve in wonder, only half believing that this is actually happening.

“Thanks,” he replies and he stands back up, coming face-to-face with Steve. “You’re still really gross, though,” he continues as he pulls Steve into him so they’re both standing under the hot spray of water.

Steve huffs out a breath, amused. “Yeah?” he asks playfully. “What are you planning on doing about it?”

Slowly, Bucky brings his hand up to Steve’s face, carefully swiping his fringe—usually artfully styled but now weighed down by the water—aside and then resting his palm lower so he’s cupping Steve’s jaw. _You’re beautiful_ , he wants to whisper. _You’re beautiful and I want you to be mine_. The feeling is foreign to him and it leaves him feeling afraid and confused; he doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before but thinks that this must be coming pretty darn close.

It seems that Steve gets what he means anyway because he ducks his head down, blushing again, and his lips reach Bucky’s hand. For a moment he thinks Steve presses a kiss into his palm but a second later the pressure’s gone again and he’s sure he must’ve imagined it. To distract himself, he holds his hand under the shampoo dispenser and awkwardly starts washing Steve’s hair, trying to get the paint out of it. The soap-and-water mixture trailing down Steve’s chest turns orange, and for a moment Bucky feels his throat close up again.

“Just paint, it’s just paint,” Steve reminds him and Bucky can breathe again, though his arm has stilled and his hand is now clutching Steve’s hair uselessly. His gaze drops from the top of Steve’s head onto his face and he finds Steve staring at him. This time when their eyes meet it’s as if an electric current courses through his body. He doesn’t really remember moving his arm but suddenly he’s cupping the back of Steve’s neck, slowly pulling the other man towards him. His eyes flutter closed and his heart beats so fast it feels it’s about to jump out of his chest and then—

“We can’t.” Steve sounds absolutely devastated but he looks resolute when he steps away from Bucky, the few inches separating them suddenly feeling like a mile.

_Oh_. Of course Steve doesn’t really want him.

“We can’t, because I’m your therapist,” Steve emphasizes. “It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“Uh,” Bucky utters dumbly, not knowing what to do now. He’s resolutely not looking down, all of a sudden incredibly aware of the fact that they’re both wearing nothing but boxer briefs. Soaking wet boxer briefs. That leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Apparently the spell has been broken for the both of them, because Steve’s blush is coming back again, and he shuffles around awkwardly. “Towels?” he asks, prompting Bucky to get moving.

“Yeah,” he says roughly, reaching past Steve to hand him a towel. Instead of drying himself off, however, Steve drapes the fabric over Bucky’s head and starts toweling him off. “I’ve got it,” he says, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, and he shoulders past Steve to get a second towel out of the cupboard under the sink. He throws it at his friend before turning away and drying himself off properly. When his upper body is dry enough he hurriedly pulls on his clean t-shirt and turns back to Steve, who’s forlornly looking at his wet boxer shorts.

“Do you want to borrow a clean pair?” he asks carefully, still avoiding looking down for more than a second.

Steve looks up in relief. “That’d be great, actually. I’m not a big fan of, uh, going commando.” He’s still blushing, and Bucky can’t help but think it’s an adorable look on him. He quickly moves back into his room to grab two pairs of clean boxer briefs, hands one to Steve, and then leaves him to it.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says as he moves to close the door. He walks back to his dresser and changes underpants before deciding to put on a clean pair of sweatpants as well.

Steve enters his bedroom a few minutes later, back in his own jeans but with Bucky’s t-shirt stretched obscenely across his broad chest. He’s holding his towel and soggy clothes, and asks Bucky what to do with them.

“Just put them in my laundry basket,” he tells him. “I’ll make sure everything gets washed and get it back to you on Monday.” He glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand and sees that it’s past 10pm already.

“I should probably go, still need to make it home,” Steve says and Bucky can hear the reluctance in his voice. “Have a good weekend?”

The conversation feels unnatural, as if the both of them don’t know how to revert to their previous relationship. Now more than ever Bucky wishes that Steve wasn’t here in a professional capacity.

“Thanks, for tonight,” Bucky says, feeling the need to make sure that Steve understands what it means to him, even though he’s not sure if he means his therapy or his companionship. Would Steve think it weird that he considers him his best friend?

“You’re very welcome,” Steve says, and he takes a step closer to Bucky.

The distance between them is agonizing.

Bucky takes a leap of fate and takes two steps, right up in Steve’s space, and envelops him into a hug. For a moment it feels a bit unsatisfying because he only has the one arm to wrap around him but then—

“Oh, thank fuck,” Steve exhales, and he wraps both of his arms firmly around Bucky’s back, squeezing so tight that he almost lifts him up.

Bucky feels warm, comfortable, loved. For the first time since he woke up, he feels like he’s _home_.

“New Year’s is in less than two weeks,” Steve says to break the silence. He pulls back from Bucky to be able to look him in the eye. Bucky’s confused for a second, until he realizes what Steve is saying. His last day of work is in less than two weeks.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees with a small smile. “I’ll be looking forward to that.”

A massive grin breaks out on Steve’s face. “Me too.”

Their goodbye is short, and Bucky knows it’s because their mutual attraction is making it harder for them to part the longer they stay together. Steve cups his face for the last time, his gaze lingering on Bucky’s lips for a second too long. “See you on Monday,” he says, and then he’s out the door.

The first thing he does as soon as the door closes is fall backwards onto his bed, a stupid grin on his face and feeling so elated he’s positive he won’t be getting any sleep that night.

Unfortunately, he’s wrong about that.

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

The nightmares become even worse after that. The paint incident with Steve seems to have knocked down a few walls in Bucky’s head and he experiences flashback after flashback, all taking place in barren warzones.

The images are vague at first, disorienting, and every time Bucky wakes up that weekend he doesn’t know what he’s been dreaming of.

It isn’t until Sunday night that he has another honest conversation with Dugan, who he knows to have had similar experiences. It’s a term that Dugan uses that seems to unlock all of Bucky’s past.

Survivor’s guilt.

As soon as he’s asleep memories start to pour back into his consciousness and it’s too much, too painful, and yet never enough to _understand_.

That is, until he wakes up that night for the nth time in a row—he’d lost count hours ago—and he knows he remembers everything again.

All of it.

The brave men and women in his squad, their friendly camaraderie turning into grim determination.

The heat of the desert, the never-ending glare of the sunlight in their eyes.

The missions, quickly evolving from an easy first to the complicated third and then the messy seventh, twelfth, sixteenth, blurring all together until—

That one, last mission.

The explosion.

And then,

And then it’s Monday morning and he’s abruptly dragged into the present by Sharon, her loud voice piercing through his agony and he’s expected to be _normal._

How can he begin to act normal? He’s here, safe and back home, only having lost an arm while his pals, his friends, the _best fucking people_ Bucky’s ever known, had to part with their _lives_.

Bucky doesn’t deserve the kindness he’s getting.

Bucky doesn’t deserve _anything_.

And then it’s when it hits him—

The sound that tears its way out of his throat is one of anguish and he doesn’t register it’s him making the noise until Sharon’s trying to calm him down. He’s crying, _sobbing_ , screaming as if his life depends on it, and he can’t seem to stop.

Sharon soon accepts defeat and goes to get Sam. It isn’t until Sam doesn’t succeed in soothing him either that it occurs to Bucky that he needs someone else right now and he’s sobbing out his name, repeating it over and over.

“Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve—“

He barely recognizes his own voice but he knows it to be an absolute truth. He needs Steve right now.

“Buck, hey, Bucky, it’s me.”

His sight is completely blurred because of the tears but he can feel Steve grabbing a hold of his hand and suddenly it’s like he can breathe again. He blinks and sees Steve glaring Sharon and Sam out of the room as if they had been the ones upsetting Bucky,

“Steeeve,” he hears himself moan miserably. He can see Steve mentally fighting with himself for a bit but then he thinks he can hear him whisper _fuck it_ and he crawls into the bed next to Bucky, wedging himself underneath the blanket and positioning himself so that Bucky can curl up around him, arm over his chest.

“Everything will be alright,” Steve promises him, and it’s such a _Steve_ thing to say that it only makes Bucky cry harder. The shirt underneath his cheek is soggy already but for once Bucky doesn’t care enough to get embarrassed,

“It’s all my fault,” he says in complete hysterics. “All of it. I did it, Steve!” He feels the need to get it all off his chest and that need is bigger than his fear of losing Steve, so he talks.

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Steve says as Bucky’s speech becomes unintelligible. “Is this about the army? Did you do something in the army?”

“No!” Bucky wails. “That’s the problem. I didn’t do anything! I noticed it too late and then it was blowing up already. And I didn’t even have the courage to die, like the rest of my squad. All of them, Steve! Except me. So I—I couldn’t—I had to—“ He starts sobbing again, unable to get the words to form in his mouth.

Steve’s quiet for a few seconds, absolutely still. “Bucky,” he says, and he can hear in his voice that he understands. “Please, tell me you didn’t—“

Steve can’t get the words out, either. He pulls Bucky even closer to his chest, and together they cry.

Bucky’s not sure how long it takes for him to calm down. He’s still breathing roughly but the tears have stopped and a quick glance at Steve shows him his friend has his eyes closed firmly, a look of agony on his face.

“Steve,” he says, his voice raw. Steve opens his eyes and looks at him.

“Buck,” he breathes, his hand cupping Bucky’s face.

Bucky has to take a deep breath. “Don’t hate me?” he asks in a small voice.

Steve blinks at him. “Hate? Bucky, what on earth makes you think I could ever hate you?”

He feels his face fall again. “What I did was unforgivable,” he mutters, absolutely sure about that.

Steve just shakes his head. “No, Buck. I might not understand, but I don’t blame you. Just please, please tell me you’re not going to try again. I don’t think I’d be able to cope with losing you.”

It’s the first time that either of them have voiced their feelings for each other. Bucky nods. “It will be difficult,” he says. “But for you, I’d do anything.”

“No. Do it for yourself.”

 

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

It’s Christmas week and it takes all of Bucky’s willpower to make it through the days. He doesn’t see Steve for a most of it because he’s off visiting his mom and it leaves Bucky to spend too much time in his own head.

He does spend a lot of time talking to Sam, but it’s the conversations with Dugan that really help.

“I faked an accident so they wouldn’t be able to identify me as a soldier, identify me as me. I just needed to disappear, quietly and forever—the compulsion was so strong that it was all I could think of. I have a little sister, Dugan. I didn’t want give anyone the ability to tell her that her big bro had offed himself. I needed to disappear, like how I should’ve disappeared back in the Middle East,” he tells him when he’s ready.

Dugan may have a gruff demeanor, but his heart is no stone. “Come here, kid,” he says hoarsely as he pulls Bucky into a big hug, “You’ll get through this. Hell, _we_ ’ll get through this.

And surprisingly, he does.

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

Apparently, New Year’s Eve is a bit of a thing over at ARC. It being situated in the middle of nowhere makes it a perfect refuge for veterans suffering from PTSD, and when Bucky comes down for dinner on the 31st he almost turns tail and runs.

Dugan introduces him to his friends; Jones, Morita, Falsworth, and Dernier. They’re all veterans with their own stories but most of all they’re very easy to talk to. When it’s nearing 11pm Bucky feels like he’s known all of them forever and he thanks Dugan, who answers him with a rough _don’t know what you’re talking about, son_.

A few people are leaving the room to watch the fireworks outside, which are far away enough not to make a lot of sound but look pretty nonetheless, and Bucky finds himself scanning the room once more.

Steve’s still not here.

They saw each other for maybe a few minutes that afternoon but Steve was in such a hurry—it was his last day, after all—that he didn’t have all that much time to stop and chat. However, he doesn’t have a reason to still be absent.

Bucky excuses himself to go to the bathroom and splashes some water in his face, the crowd inside finally getting to him. He walks back into the hallway which offers him a view of the communal area and decides to go upstairs, feeling the need to lie down for a while.

He’s made it three steps when he hears a voice behind him.

“Not going to deprive me of your company this evening, are you?”

He turns around and sees Steve looking up at him shyly, a bottle of confiscated cheap champagne in his hand, as if he hadn’t been sure if Bucky would want to spend time with him right now.

“Steve!” he exclaims, his anxiety seeping away again. “I just need a bit of quiet,” he tells his friend. “So you’re welcome to join me if you think you can keep your trap shut for more than a minute?” He smiles innocently at him.

“Jerk,” Steve says, affection coloring his tone. “Ever been up on the roof?”

Bucky shakes his head and Steve leads him upstairs, stopping on the way in Bucky’s room to grab some blankets and pillows. The roof turns out to be a small patch of horizontal shingles surrounded by a low and obviously improvised fence on one side and a large chimney on the other. Steve arranges the pillows against the brick wall and they sit down on the first blanket before he covers their legs with the second.

“Sorry I haven’t been able to talk much this last week,” Steve begins, and Bucky can see that it’s actually hurting him.

“Not your fault,” he says, smiling a bit sadly.

Steve shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter, I let you down and now—“

“Steve.” Bucky interrupts him quickly. “Not. Your. Fault.”

Steve nods, though he doesn’t look entirely satisfied. He lifts his arm in a gesture for Bucky to lean against him, and Bucky doesn’t have to think twice before he melts into Steve’s warmth.

“This alright?” Steve asks softly, stroking Bucky’s arm carefully.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers. This feels very, very alright.

Steve clumsily opens the bottle of champagne, offering it to Bucky to take a sip.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep that closed until midnight?” Bucky asks with a soft laugh.

“Fuck midnight,” Steve says. “I’ll be needing that mythical liquid courage, thank you very much.”

He sounds so serious that it makes Bucky laugh a bit louder, and it’s the first real laugh he’s had since his memory was restored. “Very well, then,” he agrees as he takes a sip. It’s not as bad as he was expecting and he makes an appreciative face.

Steve follows his example, and soon conversation between the two of them flows freely. They’re not reminded of an outside world existing past their own little bubble until they hear the chanting of people down on the lawn.

“Ten, nine, eight—“

Bucky glances up at Steve and he finds that the blond is already gazing back at him. His eyes flick from Steve’s to his lips and back up again—

“Six, five, four—“

As in slow motion, Bucky sees Steve’s face coming closer. He’s not quite sure who moved first but it doesn’t matter because he’s now close enough—

“Two, one, HAPPY—“

The noise downstairs disappears the moment he feels Steve’s lips softly pressed against his own. Better still, the noise in his own head is gone for the first time since he woke up and all he can feel, see, hearsmelltaste is Steve Rogers. Steve and his stupid face and his stupid grin which is now pressing kisses to any and every part of Bucky that’s in easy reach.

“God, Buck,” he whispers, his expression unbelieving but so incredibly happy that all Bucky can do is smile back at him.

He doesn’t say it, not yet. But Bucky’s mind is absolutely clear: _I love you_.

And Steve’s eyes project their answer.

_I love you too_.

 

 

⋇ ♡ ⋇ ♡ ⋇

 

His name is James Buchanan Barnes and he’s not supposed to be alive.

His life is a mess but he knows he has the time to get it back on track.

He knows he’ll send his sister, dear, _dear_ Rebecca, a letter soon, let her know he’s okay.

He’ll get a job, an apartment, a _home_.

But for now, there’s only one thing that matters:

No-one in the history of mankind has ever been this glad to survive.


End file.
